You Miss Her Everything
by storybycorey
Summary: College AU, part 5 in the "Bunsen Burner" series, sequel to "The Way You Say Flerovium" (available here on my author page). "I don't wanna miss you anymore. Your hands, your mouth, your…everything, Mulder, I miss your everything…" "Shhhh," you whisper, missing her everything, too.


It's the end of May and it's been two hours.

Just the length of a movie, that's all. A terrible movie though, the worst you've ever seen. Worse even than that bubblegum mess of a film her roommate recommended last week. Instead of watching, you'd entertained yourself by nibbling at her shoulder, naming each freckle aloud as you tasted it. Cinnamon Sprinkle, Scout, Snowflake, Nessie, Stardust… The credits had rolled before you were able to finish.

You want to finish. You can't bear the thought there are freckles out there, unnamed and untasted and driving away in her sister's old beat-up Dodge.

Two hours. It's as if someone took infinite and crammed it all into a single minute, then took that and multiplied it by one-hundred-twenty.

On the bench beside her dorm, you sit, while used-to-be-freshman-and-soon-to-be-sophomores shuffle boxes around your in-the-way feet. You could move, you suppose, but consideration wouldn't really vibe with the desperation angle you're working right now.

It hurts though, right in your heart like the sharpened tip of an arrow would, and each thought of her sad, wet eyes pushes it deeper. You're not going to survive.

She kissed you last night, pressed those rosy pink lips to yours and clutched the back of your neck like a life-ring. Which is stupid, because if anyone's a life-ring in this relationship, it's her. You'd sink if it weren't for her, you'd drown in this ocean-ful of sea urchins and jellyfish and fraternity boys.

"It's only the summer. We'll be okay," she promised, and you believed her. Dana Scully doesn't lie. Her little body is packed with everything good in this world, and good things like her don't lie.

You'll be okay. You'll be okay because Scully said so.

…

The two of you took pictures a few days ago with your roommate's Polaroid camera, were silly and giddy and tragically in love. She teased you and accused you of being a terrible photographer, then pressed her favorites to her chest while holding back tears.

Sometimes you imagine your life as a Polaroid photo. Blurry and hazy, your insides not quite gelled. Until that perfect moment when everything falls into place, until a girl with bluebird eyes and fall-leaf hair shake-shake-shakes you into absolute clarity.

You lay the photos on your unmade bed, arrange them into groups. Times she was adorable, times she was infuriating, times she was playful, times she was breathtaking (really, they could all fall into that last group, couldn't they?).

But there's also another pile. One you save 'til last. Times she slipped off her shirt and tucked her lip between her teeth and almost broke the camera with the milky white glow of her skin.

Christ, she's beautiful.

She's beautiful, and now it's been eight hours.

Your roommate moved out this morning, hallelujah, leaving you to sulk your summer studies away in solitude. Pity parties are much more fun alone anyway. Sliding to the floor, you drag the bedspread with you, Polaroids tumbling into your lap like ping-pong balls on some horribly misguided game show. _Mr. Foxxxxx Mulder, you're walking away today with a fantastic set of prizes!_ _An amazing array of anguish AAAAND a superb selection of sorrow! Congratulationsssss!_

Clenched between your fingers is the last photo you took that day, blurred lily skin and rouge-colored nipples, and a look on her face that could bring you to your knees.

"C'mere," she'd whispered, shy and sweet but sexy as hell. You'd dropped the camera then. The clunk of it had made her gasp, but then the way you'd tossed her back onto the bed had made her gasp even harder. She'd tasted like seawater that day, and when she came against your tongue, you were sure you were close to drowning. But no, she's your life ring, remember?

You've read before about photographs as portals to the past, and you wonder what it would take to slip through plastic and emulsion and back into her arms. You wonder how many years of your life would be required as payment, for just one more taste of her skin.

She's barely five foot two, but the space she's left behind is the size of a city, a state, a whole goddamn planet. How can you sleep knowing it'll be three months until her little hipbones jut against your thigh, ninety days before you suck a contrary-just-for-the-sake-of-being-contrary argument from her sticky lollipop lips?

You're silently and pathetically losing your shit right now, aren't you?

It's been nine hours.

….

You must've drifted off to sleep, because you wake on the cold tile floor with a Polaroid pasted dramatically to your cheek. Your photo teleportation methods could use some work.

The phone rings. You're bleary-eyed and moody. _Go away_ you want to yell.

It rings again though, and somewhere, in the back of your not-quite-lucid brain, there's a whisper, "There's potential there, you idiot—can't you see that?"

And that's when you grasp it. You grasp that potential so hard, it'll bear your finger-marks for days.

Across the floor you fly, yanking the phone from its cradle by the cord. Your high school baseball coach would be proud of the hook slide you finagle in order to catch it.

"Hello?" you gasp, frantically and a bit too desperately, but at least the line's not dead.

A pause.

And then angels, harps, a goddamn heavenly symphony, it's her. "Hi…it's me." Would it be too much if you started to cry? Yeah, yeah it probably would.

Still though. "Scully," you practically sob. Christ, you're pathetic.

Another pause. It's long and heavy and filled with dread like a sewer pipe. The panic sets in. The sheer and utter terror. She's been waiting to be miles and miles away, just to let you down gently. The captain of her high school football team, Dirk or Biff or some other equally disgusting jock-like name, was waiting on her doorstep, John Hughes-style, ready to sweep her off her feet. You're going to vomit.

But then there's something else. A sniffle. A sniffle and the faintest little whimper. And then a terrible, heart-wrenching whisper, "I miss you so much already…"

And right there, right on your filthy dorm room floor, littered with Polaroids and tears and Cheeto crumbs, your heart shatters.

"Scully," you manage, "Oh baby, me too. So much." And then you're crying, you're both crying, and _screw_ using a photo as a portal. You demand this damn telephone line be your portal, because you need to be with her right now more than anything you've ever needed in your life.

"I thought…," she chokes, "Oh god, I thought I could do this."

She told you you'll be okay. _She told you that_ , and you believed her.

There's a Polaroid wedged beneath your thigh, one from the very last pile, and you hold the slick plastic to your lips while you speak. "You _can_ , Scully." And oh, she can, she has to. She has to, because if your trusty little life ring can't stay afloat, there's no hope for you. "We can do this, we can. Don't you remember telling me that?"

"But that was before you weren't here," she chuckles through a sob, "Before I had to watch Missy and her boyfriend and their melodramatic reunion, slobbering all over each other on the couch. Before I had to listen to Bill lecture me about helping Mom with dinner, when all I wanted to do was take a nap after the drive…"

She's half-laughing, half-crying, and you want to comfort her and kiss her and shoot another few rolls of film while you're doing it, because maybe, just maybe, that would help you not feel like you're dying. "I wish I could hold you right now," you whisper, "I wish that more than anything."

"Me, too," she murmurs back.

You breathe, and she breathes. And in the dark of your room and on the cold of your floor, you can almost imagine she's beside you, that you've just made love and her icy little toes are inches from your shins, ready to burrow between. For ten minutes you breathe, until the hitches in her throat lessen and the gaping hole you feel in your chest doesn't feel quite so gaping anymore. You've never been so in love that it physically hurts before her.

"I have to go," she finally whispers. "There's no phone in my bedroom, so I'm out in the living room. Dad would kill me if I accidentally fell asleep out here…long distance charges and all…"

You slide your mouth against that Polaroid photo, the plastic a poor substitute for her lips.

"I love you, Scully. So much." It's mindboggling just how much. It's not even quantifiable. You can't explain it away with an equation or a calculation or even a million Polaroid pictures. You love her so much you stole a Bunsen burner for her and now it's worth more to you than anything else in the world, more than money or answers or even your long-lost little sister…

Her voice chokes. "Oh god, me too, you know that." You look at her expression in that photo and she's right—you do know that. Because a girl couldn't look like that if she weren't in love with you.

"Umm, okay then…," you stall. You don't want it to end, you can't bear the thought of that dial tone taking the place of her voice, so you slowly pull the phone from your ear.

"Wait!" her voice-and-not-the-dialtone blurts out just as you're about to disconnect.

"Yeah?" you gasp. A bit too eager, but you don't care.

"Go check the Bunsen burner," she murmurs, and then she's gone.

You look at your watch. It's been thirteen hours now.

….

You'd allow yourself to get all dramatic again, to sink back to the floor in a fit of self-pity, then languish there for the next several days or so, or at least until Professor Krasnowski threatens to fire you from your summer T.A. position, and boy, then you'd really be screwed.

You'd allow that, but your curiosity gets the better of you.

The Bunsen burner's held a place of honor on your university-issued shelving unit for seven months now. You know some college official intended the shelves for books and most certainly not for stolen lab equipment, yet there it's sat (along with other not-book things like basketballs and cassette tapes and the occasional pair of dirty gym socks).

You rise in the dim light to find it, taking care not to step on the Polaroids laid across your floor like stepping stones. Only it's not there. IT'S NOT THERE, and a balloon of panic expands in your chest until you realize that something's replaced it. That something is a folded up piece of paper adorned with Scully's distinctive loop-de-loops. Your desk lamp is rickety but functional as you stoop down to read.

 _Fox (I know you like me to call you Mulder, but sometimes Fox seems appropriate, you know?),_

 _I still remember the first day I saw you, hunched over a lab table and sneaking glances across the room at me, though you thought I didn't know._ _I was captivated by you, do you know that?_ _So different from every other boy I'd ever known._

 _When you stole that Bunsen burner, my heart did things it had never done before._ _It flipped and it flopped and it clenched within my chest like a fist._ _You may not realize it, but that's the moment I fell in love with you._

 _Three months is going to feel like an eternity._ _So much longer and more painful than I'm ready for, and yet…_

 _We can do this._ _We have to._

 _By now you see that I've taken the Bunsen burner, but only temporarily and only as a way of marking the time._ _There are six pieces to a Bunsen burner._ _Maybe you didn't know that, but your ever-resourceful girlfriend (do you know how much I love to call myself that?) has learned it to be true._ _Six pieces divided by three months equals two (see? I've told you I was smarter than you!)._

 _Soooo, just to make sure you don't forget me, every two weeks or so, I'll send you a piece._ _I'm just teasing—I know you won't forget me—but it'll be a reminder that I'm out here missing you, that I'm out here as broken and incomplete as that Bunsen burner is._ _And when that last piece comes back, do you know what it means?_ _It means the Bunsen burner can be put back together again._ _More importantly, it means we can be put back together again, too._

 _I love you._ _So much._

 _Scully_

You're shaking, you realize. Shaking and grinning and fighting back tears.

It's eleven at night, and you fall more in love with her with each passing moment. You're the luckiest guy on the planet. One of these days your brain's not going to be able to handle just how goddamn lucky you are.

Letter clutched tightly in your hand, you fall back to the bed and smile yourself to sleep.

….

It's been nine days.

She's called once more, the two of you giddy as schoolgirls, and the funny thing is you weren't even embarrassed by that. Her voice in your ear is like the sweetest hard candy—she makes you hyper and jittery, bouncing off the walls, but all in the very best way.

Dana Scully is your sugar rush.

The crash when she's gone is hard though, and that night, you may have run ten miles just to keep from crying.

But now, two days later, you're standing in the hallway with a package in your hand, return address making you lightheaded. It's only a piece of lab equipment, _chill out_ , but it's also so much more.

Once in the room, you sit on your bed. You don't even pretend to be slow as you rip open her very meticulous, very Scully-like wrappings, and before you know it, out clangs a piece of metal, which rolls off your knee and onto your toe. "Shit!" you curse, grabbing it before it hits the floor.

There's also a note (of course there is—this is Scully). Written on pretty blue stationary (again—this is Scully). Which you tear open immediately to read (this is _Scully_ ).

 _First piece!_ _Are you excited?_ _I am!_ _It means we've survived so far._ _It means we're that much closer to being together again!_ _This is the Bunsen burner's base, quite obviously._ _Only five more pieces to go!_

 _P.S._ _I'll call you on Tuesday night._ _Make sure you're there!_ _Ahab's being super strict about long distance phone calls, and they're cheaper after 7…_

 _P.P.S_ _I read a really interesting article about psychokinesis that I cut out and saved for you._

 _P.P.P.S._ _Melissa and her boyfriend are SUPER-annoying_.

You shove aside a bag of sunflower seeds and a Playboy (hey, you're very, very much in love but you _are_ still a twenty-one year old guy here) and place the Bunsen burner base on the shelf. Then her pretty little note standing up tall behind it. You're glad you're not rooming with anyone now, because now that you think about it, you suppose this could be considered embarrassing.

…

She calls on Tuesday night just like she promised, is painfully far away from you and your needy fingers.

"I never finished naming your freckles, you know," you tell her.

"Mulder," she replies, in that voice that makes you want to kiss her face right off, "That's an impossible mission. As soon as you've named the first three thousand there'll be three thousand more to take their place."

"Mmmm, sounds exactly like a mission I'd choose to accept from such a mysterious, sexy, tape-recorded voice."

She chuckles, and just when you think the topic's been closed, she starts back up again, "You knowww, there's one right here…an unnamed freckle…" She's speaking in a sing-songy voice that means she's up to no-good, or in other words, something fantastic. You're already panting by the time she adds in a whisper, "This tape…will self-destruct…in ten…seconds…"

Scully wants to play, and whadd'ya know, here comes that glorious sugar rush again.

"Umm, well …," you stutter, "Freckle-naming isn't an easy task, you know. It takes skill, inspiration. Why don't you describe this unnamed freckle for me? So I can appreciate its personality, its _essence_." Yeah, its essence, that's good.

"Wellll," she Cheshire cat-grins (you can _hear_ the grin, and it makes you a little dizzy). "It's small. Small and reddish-brown and just sort of…freckle-y. But the skin where it sits is soft. It's realllly soft…" Ohhh, she definitely wants to play.

"Mmmmm… I bet it is, Scully. And _where_ exactly did you say it is? For research purposes of course."

"Ah, of course," she replies, but then adds with a whisper, "Why don't you guess?", and you just about lose your shit.

"Well I mean, there are so many possibilities really, so many _soft_ possibilities. Your cheek, your belly, the inside of your—"

"My breast," she breathes.

"Jesus." Your voice cracks like a fucking teenager's.

"Right there," she murmurs, "Right where it swells from my torso, that spot where the curve starts, you know?"

Oh, you know. You most definitely know. Her skin flushes there before anyplace else, you've learned. "You blush there. Your skin turns such of pretty shade of pink, Scully, and I love it." She makes a noise that sounds distinctly like a purr. You wish you were there to run your nails along her arched-up kittycat back.

"Sooo?" she asks.

"Oh, a name, right." You're getting too distracted. "How about Cherry Blossom? Pretty and pink and perfect. D'you like that?" You're such a moron.

"Mm-hmm, I _do_ like that. D'you want me to find another one?" Her VOICE. It reminds you of those few times you've called a 1-900 number, only none of those voices had skin like an opal and eyes like sea glass, none were small enough to fit in your pocket, yet large enough to fill your entire world.

"Please," you squeak.

"Another one on my breast," she says all breathy and soft, "This one's about an inch from my nipple though…" You're hard inside your track pants by now.

The Polaroids are taped on the wall above your bed, and you find one with her breasts exposed. Running your finger over the plastic, you imagine you're touching that freckle, that cute little freckle, that sexy little freckle, that most perfect little bit of discolored Scully skin, and you groan.

"Heaven," you gasp. "I think I'll name it Heaven." Again, MORON, but maybe not so much, because she expels the sweetest little whimper into the phone. You wonder whether she's looking at that spot right now, looking down at her nipple. Is her shirt off, her bra, is she _oh christ_ is she touching herself? "Scully, god, I'm so turned on, baby. You're making me—"

"Oh crap! They're home!" she squeals. "I've gotta…I've gotta go, Mulder!"

She's gone, and you're left gasping for air.

You make do with a Polaroid picture and a sweat-slickened palm, the same way you've done for the past thirteen days.

….

She calls again on the eighteenth day, reads you passages from Shakespeare while you picture her high on a balcony, tragically beautiful yet forbidden to touch.

With your rogue-ish Romeo ways, you call her back on the twentieth.

"Mulder! No, you can't afford it!" she scolds, but the girlish lilt to her voice tells you she's charmed by your impatience. You're sure it doesn't hurt that Melissa's in the background asking "Dana's on the phone _again_?"

Conversations are mundane though. Well, no, you take that back, talking with Scully is never mundane—even discussing the weather with her is enough to give you chills. But let's just say the conversations are _cautious_. There's always some various Scully milling around in the background, ready with a judgement or a smirk or a tease.

"Can't you call when you're alone?" you whine.

"I'm _never_ alone," she sighs.

….

On Day Twenty-Four, exhausted from a game of hoops, you open your mailbox to find the next package. It's been six days since you've talked to her, and you miss her like air. You've forgotten the smell of her skin in the morning, and that scares you.

Rubber tubing spills from the package like an old 'snake in the can' gag. Not like you care though. The tubing's not what excites you. There, you see it, that's what excites you—stationary almost as blue as her eyes, and curlicued handwriting almost as refined as her sweet little body.

 _Second piece, my gorgeous fox-eyed boy!_

 _We're getting there, aren't we, day by lonely day._ _I just keep imagining that afternoon in your room, after you took those photos of me._ _I miss your mouth, I miss your tongue, and I should be embarrassed to write that, shouldn't I?_ _I'm not though._

 _P.S._ _Cherry Blossom and Heaven say hi._ _They miss you terribly…_

 _P.P.S. I forgot to tell you, but I've picked up a couple extra courses at my local college for the summer—they'll help boost my credits for next semester._

An hour later, you're still smiling so wide that your cheeks hurt.

….

Another week.

She's vacationing at her aunt's house, you know this, so when the phone rings at midnight, you're taken by surprise. It's not like you have _no_ friends, but none of your buddies would be calling at midnight. By midnight, they're either passed out drunk or boning some chick or sitting pathetically on their bed reading conspiracy theories (oh wait, that last one's just you). Midnight calls are reserved for bad news or girlfriends or, god forbid, both at the same time.

"It's me," she whispers, but she sounds okay.

"Scully, what's wrong? Aren't you at your aunt's?" You whisper, too, just because it feels right.

"Everything's fine, and I'm going to get in such big trouble if I get caught, but god, I just miss you so much. I miss you so much my bones ache, Mulder." It's hard to describe the sensation that comes over your body. She turns you to literal goo.

"Christ, Scully, me too. It's killing me," your gooey self whispers back. You hear her sniffle, and there's a painful crack in your chest as your heart breaks. "Oh baby, I wish I could touch you right now. I wish I could kiss you."

"Me, too." Her voice is hitched and wet, and it's the hardest thing you've ever known, being this far away from the other half of your soul.

"I have to go now," she whimpers. "Seriously, I won't make it out alive if someone catches me."

"I love you, Scully."

"You, too," she whispers.

The dial tone is your most mortal enemy, you decide.

….

The next package forty days in marks a halfway point more or less. Three down, three to go.

You've filled your time as best as you could: twenty percent school, twenty percent work, twenty percent basketball, three hundred percent mourning the absence of her. Good thing you've never fully subscribed to the absolutism of formal mathematics.

The screw-like piece of metal smells like her, and you know that's absurd, that her scent couldn't possibly have transferred from her hands to a worn piece of steel. Maybe this is how it ends, you in the looney bin pressing pieces of a Bunsen burner up against your nose.

Torn wrappings join dirty laundry on your floor while you frantically unfold her note.

 _Halfway?_ _Have we really made it this far?_ _I'd like to think these last weeks will speed through quickly, but that's probably just wishful thinking._

 _Today's piece is a stopcock._ _Yes, you read that right, and I can hear you smirking from here._ _I tried to think of a dirty joke to accompany it, but that's much more your genre than mine._ _I can't_ _ **stop**_ _myself from wanting your big, hard_ _ **cock**_ _…_ _See? No good._

 _I can't though. I want to climb up onto your cock and ride you so hard… God, Mulder, I'm blushing writing this._ _If my parents knew the things their prim and proper daughter thinks about at night…_

 _I love you, I miss you._

 _P.S._ _I swear, Missy and her boyfriend make out in front of me JUST to be mean._

 _P.P.S._ _I think I'm going to have the house to myself on Thursday night._ _Crossing my fingers… I'll call you, and we can do naughty things like talk about stopcocks._

Your dick is hard and cupped in your palm, and you don't even remember doing that. You come with a stopcock digging into your ribs and your girlfriend's last name digging into your throat.

…

It's Thursday night and it's been forty-six days. You turned down _Bloodsuckers From Outer Space_ for this. You'd have turned down an actual _rocketship_ to outer space for this. Your priorities are well-defined: Scully first, everything else in the universe second.

You'd think this were a first date. You'd think you've never talked to a girl. You'd think you don't already know that little mewling sound she makes when she's about to come.

The phone rings. You may clap your hands with glee, but you'd never admit to it.

"Scully?" No _hello_. _Hello_ is for people who aren't broken in half. _Hello_ is for people who are sitting on a couch with a girl's tongue in their ear, not sitting alone on a so-short-your-feet-hang-off-the-end dorm room bed.

"It's me," she confirms. Her voice is husky, and your dick is already hard. "It's… I'm… I'm alone." You haven't talked about this—what her aloneness necessarily means, what sorts of scandalous things could transpire as a result of it.

"Good, that's uhh that's good..." The uncertainty hits you then. You've waited all week for this, but have no idea where to go. "Are you ahh…how's everything going?"

"It's okay, just ummm… well, you know…," she mumbles, shy and nervous and too far away.

"I don't… uhhh… how should we… do you want to—?" Again, have you ever actually talked to a girl? You're beginning to think not.

"God, Mulder… I don't… I've never done something like this…"

"It's okay, Scully… If you don't want—"

Before you can finish, "Just talk to me," she breathes. Yeah. Of course. Just talk to her, you idiot. Just _talk_ to her.

Your voice drops, meets her down in that magical place where far-away girlfriends dwell. "Okay. Yeah, okay. Tell me… tell me what you need…"

If you close your eyes, you can almost feel her warm breaths at your cheek. "I just… I miss you," she whimpers.

"Oh Scully..." You press the words into the hard plastic of the telephone, in hopes by some miracle she'll feel them.

"I don't wanna miss you anymore. Your hands, your mouth, your… _everything_ , Mulder, I miss your _everything_ …"

"Shhhh," you whisper, missing her _everything_ , too.

"I just wish…I wish it were you…I want it to be you when I...no, never mind…" You picture her cheeks flushing, the sharp curve of her chin tucked down into her chest, and you wonder just how much longer you'll be able to live without her.

"Don't be embarrassed, Scully… it's just me. Leave the embarrassment to those of us named after fuzzy little forest creatures, okay? Just talk to me..." She giggles. You'd trade a bit of self-deprecation for a Scully giggle any day of the week.

"It's just that…when I…god…ummm, you know…when I do _that_ , I just can't… because it's not _you_ , Mulder…it's not you, and I want it to be. So much." Just the thought of her touching herself, wishing it were you... Are you absolutely, positively sure that portal concept was invalid?

"It's okay, baby, it's okay…," you shush, "I want it to be me, too."

"Will you… will you tell me what to do? Tell me how to do it…so it feels like you…?" This. This is one of those scandalous things you tried not to hope would transpire.

"God, yes… Yes, oh definitely yes, Scully. Let's make you feel good, baby." You're a bit enthusiastic apparently.

"M'kay." She's really just as sweet as can be.

"So…ummm…where are you? You don't have a phone in your room, right?" Gotta be able to picture this, gotta get the details right.

"On the couch," she whispers, "Oh god, I can't believe I'm doing this…"

"Shhhh, I love that you're doing this. I love it. Do you have any idea how much you're turning me on right now?"

"Yeah? Really?" There's that breathiness in her voice again, god help you.

"Yeah. Really. Like _really_ really." Nothing's even happened yet, and your hard-on is about as impressive as it gets. "I want this for you, Scully. Making _you_ feel good makes _me_ feel good."

"Oh baby," she whines, and your knees go weak.

"So, ummm… what are you wearing then?" You try your very hardest not to make that sounds sleazy, but probably fail.

"Well, ahhh… god, this is so embarrassing…" Her flushed little face…

"Fuzzy little forest creature, remember? This is _me_ , Scully."

"You're right, I know. Ummm…" Her voice turns soft, sexy. "I'm wearing the red… the red bra and panties, the ones you bought me…"

Your response is a garbled sort of mess of the words _fuck me_.

"I had them on all day, Mulder," she whispers. There's absolutely no stopping your hips from thrusting into the stale air of your dorm room right now. "Beneath my clothes… while I sat in class, while I studied at the library, while I watched "Jeopardy" with Missy… just thinking about tonight… about you…" Your groan is embarrassing honestly, but hell if you can do anything about it.

"Shit, Scully, are you trying to kill me?" She giggles again, and look, another thrust. "I bet it felt naughty though, didn't it? My naughty little schoolgirl…"

"God Mulder," she gasps in that way that means you've both shocked and excited her. "Ummm I mean, god… yeah, it did… it felt erotic, naughty… I wanted you to see me so bad…" And you _can_ see, her in that red lingerie on her Daddy's nice couch, just like one of Matisse's odalisques.

"Remind me… Tell me how sexy you look… Describe yourself..."

"Mmmm, god… ummm okay… so the bra… do you remember? It's got this beautiful scalloped lace—"

"You, Scully, tell me about _you_."

She waits a few beats before continuing, sharp little breaths echoing in your ear. "Okay… yeah… okay… well, my breasts… they're… they're pretty… I mean… the lace…it make their curves look so pretty… D'you like my breasts, Mulder?"

"Yeah, oh hell yeah." You look down to see the hard ridge of your cock, pressed painfully against the fly of your jeans. It turns you on, how hard you are, and maybe that's weird, but you're entirely incapable of rational thought when the girl you love asks you whether you like her perfect pink breasts or not. "I love your breasts, I adore them..."

"My nipples…," she whispers, "I can see them through the lace… They're hard…." Your hand finds its way into your pants, how can it not?

"Pinch them, Scully, the way you like me to do. Brush your knuckles over them, baby…" Her little whimper, Christ, her little whimper.

"Does that feel good?" You want her to feel good. That's become your sole purpose in life right now, to make her feel good.

"Yeahhhh…," she murmurs, "More though… tell me what else… tell me what you'd do…"

"I'd… ughh… I'd slide my hand down… Do it, Scully, slide your hand down… I'd slide it down inside your panties slowly, real slowly… Are you doing it?" Your own hand in your own pants feels nothing like hers, but it's still good, so good.

"Mmmhmmm…"

"I'd slide it down past your curls, brush real soft against your clit the way you like, remember?" Her clit, it's sensitive, can make her jump with just the slightest, barest touch.

"Yeah… it's… god… god, I'm really wet, Mulder…"

Another thrust, this time a big one.

"So wet for me, right, Scully? Does it feel good?" Your eyes are locked with hers, even though hers are coated in plastic and hanging on a wall.

"Yeahhhh…," she breathes.

"D'you wanna… wanna taste yourself? Pretend you're me. Christ, my mouth is watering… lick your fingers and tell me how good you taste…"

"Jesus, Mulder, I don't know… I've never…"

"Please… please, baby…" Are you begging? You don't even know anymore.

"Okay," she whispers, and you can hear her, the delicious sound of her tongue and her lips on her fingers. You squeeze the base of your cock before something disastrous occurs. "It's salty, tangy… god, it's really sexy, isn't it?"

"Yeah, fuck yeah, it's sexy. Now go back down, now that your fingers are nice and wet, go back down and rub your clit a couple times, just a couple though, then slide a couple of them in…." She moans, and you can't help but moan yourself, moan and spread your pre-cum around with your thumb, the same way she does so well, only yours doesn't have coral pink polish painted so nice on your nail.

"Now stroke, baby, stroke your fingers in and out, but curl them, you know how I do? Curl them up until you find that spot… god Scully, I wanna touch you so bad… did you find it? Did you find it yet?"

"Mmmmyeah, yeah, just like you, Mulder… mmmm it feels good, but… but… need more... Tell me about you… what are you doing? Are you hard? Tell me…."

"I've been hard all day… just thinking about you… about you and about this… Touch your clit now, use your thumb and rub your clit. In little circles like I do… See if you can pinch your nipples a few more times…" Her nipples, sweet and hard behind that latticework of lace…

"Oh… oh… god, it's so good… Mulder, touch yourself, get yourself off… I wanna hear you…"

And then there's just breathing, just hot whooshes of air and blurred, slick hands and soft sounds from her throat and your voice whining her name so many times it's not even her name anymore, just six jumbled letters of need and of lust and of wildly clenched teeth. And then, _then_ , that little mewl, that sexy little mewl that would bring tears to your eyes if you had any more brain cells available right now to do that.

"Oh goddd," she chokes out, "Oh god, Mulder…," then you're coming, too, slickly and messily, hundreds of miles away.

It's the widest your smile's been in forty-six days.

"Scully," you can't help but add, after you've both calmed down, "That was so much better than talking about stopcocks." She giggles (again), and you sit, for ten minutes you sit, closing your eyes and listening to her breathe and rubbing a Polaroid picture with your thumb.

It makes you ache, but it's one of the most beautiful ten minutes of your life.

….

You start counting backwards after that; each day the number gets smaller. Psychology would tell you it's easier that way—you're still not sure you agree.

With thirty-five left, Joe Benasheck from two rooms down bangs like a buffoon on your door. He tosses a package at your chest. "Dumbasses stuck it in my box instead. Hey, ya got any beer?"

You're an asshole and don't even care when you slam the door in his face.

A small metal tube this time. When you fit it onto the stopcock, the burner looks almost complete. Does getting a little emotional make you a total wuss or just a partial one? She's taken your heart and twisted it inside out, supplied you with emotions you didn't even realize you had.

Her note, this time, is written in red. You wonder whether you'll ever see the color red again without thinking about last week. You hope not.

 _My fuzzy little forest creature,_

 _It's hard to believe we're only about a month away, isn't it? We're getting there! This fourth piece is called the collar, and though I'd like to be witty, I've got nothing too clever to say about it._

 _God, Mulder, I just keep thinking about that phonecall, keep thinking about you and how you sounded and how you made me feel._ _It was amazing…_

 _You're the most special thing that's ever existed in my life._ _I need to make sure you know that._

 _P.S._ _I love you._

 _P.P.S._ _My cousin's Leslie's coming for a visit this week!_

 _P.P.P.S._ _Bill is a dick._ _That's all._

You're about to toss the packaging when, lookie there, another envelope slips out. Three photos and, even better, another note. You'd almost think it was your birthday.

 _As a bonus this time, thought I'd send you these._

 _Three more unnamed freckles (well, actually four—there are two in one of the photos) in need of your superior freckle-naming skills._

 _I think when I return, we may have the need for a proper naming ceremony, dont'cha think?_

Three slick photos offer peaches and cream skin with perfectly imperfect caramel-colored sprinkles. You grin. Freckle-naming ceremony indeed.

….

Penny. That's the first. From what you can tell, it's near the bottom of her ribs, right where the curve takes a dive towards her pelvis. The brightest, shiniest heads-up penny—flawless enough to bring you luck for a year.

Second, the Gemini twins. Double the freckles, double the desire to slip inside that photo and kiss her downright silly, right there on her thigh just inches above her knee.

The last. This one requires some thought. Only after in-depth scrutinization do you determine it's on her rear, on that cute little ass that fits itself into your palms like play-do. Aurora, goddess of the dawn. You hang it on your wall so it's the first thing you'll see each morning.

….

It hits you two days later. Lying in bed and tracing lazy, looping curlicues on your stomach (her handwriting is prettier), eyes meandering from one blurred photo on the wall to the next.

Aurora.

How did she take that photo? She's small and she's flexible, can curl herself into the cutest of pretzels, but how did she take that photo? The angles are all wrong and the shadows not right. You look ridiculous, you know this, but you try and contort yourself into position for a photo like that, then fall, ungracefully and unceremoniously, flat on your ass.

Or are you just paranoid?

….

Thirty days left the next time she calls.

There's longing in her voice when she tells you she misses you.

She coos at your freckle names, tells you there are so many more just waiting for your skills, tells you there's one in a private, special place she didn't want to take pictures of, tells you you can name that one when you see it in person.

By the time you hang up, you're as giddy in love as you've ever been. You pull down her notes and read them all twice (maybe three times, but who's counting?), trail your fingers wistfully over the photos taped mish-mash up on your cinderblock wall. You run five miles and pretend there's still not a niggling, bony finger poking you in your ribs.

 _Day-na Scul-ly Day-na Scul-ly Day-na Scul-ly Day-na Scul-ly._ You breathe her name with each hard pound of your feet.

….

You call her the following day. You know you're not supposed to. You know Daddy has strict telephone rules, and on top of that, you've barely got enough money in your account for the rest of the week. But you call her.

Her brother answers. "Dana's busy." Without even knowing, you assume this must be Bill. She's right. He's a dick.

"Please, just for a minute. There's something I need to ask her." You make it a habit not to bargain with dicks, but this is a special circumstance. Scully is always a special circumstance.

He snorts in your ear, then slams down the receiver. "DANA, PHONE." Wow, must be an absolute joy living in a house with _that_.

But her excited squeal makes up for it. "Mulder!"

There— _that's_ what you needed to ask her. The delight in her voice takes that niggling, bony finger and squashes it into the dirt.

"Hey," you tell her, "I know I'm not supposed to call, but I've just been thinking about you. All day. I couldn't help myself…" There are twenty-four hours in a day, and you've been thinking about her for a solid twenty-five. Even the most standard laws of time and space deviate when it comes to Dana Scully.

"Aww, me too," she purrs. Her voice is echo-y, like she's cupping her hand around the mouthpiece to keep quiet.

You hold the incomplete Bunsen burner tightly in your lap.

"Can you talk for a bit? I just… I just want to hear your voice. Recite me the periodic table again. You know what those elements do to me, baby…" She could read you the entire phonebook, and you'd still be begging for more.

She chuckles. "Yeah? Do alkalines make you horny, Mulder?" Again with the soft, echo-y voice, but who cares, she's playing with you.

With a cute made-up tune, she begins. "Hydrogennn, Lithiummm, Berylliummm, Boronnn…" You're just about to settle in for the ride when she pauses. You hear a commotion in the background—male voices, her muffled giggle, then she's back, speaking even more quietly. "Ummm, I wish… I wish I could, Mulder. I want to, I do. There's just… it's just not the best time right now."

Again in the background, a male voice that's not Bill's saying her name, then a shush from her she tries quite obviously to hide. "I'm sorry, I've really got to go," she whispers. "I'll… I'll call you in a couple days though, okay? Just like we planned?"

There's a buzzing then, one that starts in your ears and spreads—to your torso, to your arms, to your legs, until you're entirely consumed. "Yeah, okay, yeah… whatever…" You hang up before she's even able to respond.

The Bunsen burner slides from your lap and crashes to the floor. You don't even care.

….

One of Bill's friends maybe. Or her brother Charlie. No, Charlie's studying abroad this summer, she told you that. Melissa's boyfriend. Melissa's friend. Just some random dude who happened to wander into the Scully house that day. An amazing, hotshot stud who doesn't live in a dorm room with a worn-out leather couch, who doesn't have a collection of underground conspiracy rags, who doesn't jack off to Polaroid pictures and lab equipment because he doesn't need to, because he's got the real thing right there in front of him.

You're being overdramatic.

Or are you? You can't fucking tell anymore.

Her face up on your wall—sweet and loving and so damn trustworthy. You're an asshole to even suggest otherwise. She wouldn't do that. She loves you. She's told you that again and again and again. She's shown you. You pull down her notes and read them again. Then again. They're worn from how many times you've read them. _…_ _the moment I fell in love with you… my fuzzy little forest creature… you're the most special thing that's ever existed in my life… I love you._

No, she wouldn't do that. You know her. You've lived in each other's back pockets for seven months. _She's lived_ out _of your back pocket for two months since then though,_ your mind supplies.

NO. She wouldn't _do_ that. You flop onto the couch and remember your first kiss, right on this very spot of leather. And then another first time, here again, her pale skin laid out as an offering. The way she sounded, the way she became your entire world in just the barest blink of an eye.

Your dick is hard.

You want her.

You know she wouldn't do that.

You pull yourself out of your sweats and spit into your palms, then pretend they're her hands when you bring yourself to release.

She wouldn't do that.

….

Twenty-seven days left. She calls, just like she'd planned.

You consider not answering. She doesn't deserve your desperation, your paranoid, wish-washy twist of the truth. But you have to answer—it's Scully.

"I'm sorry… about the other night," she tells you.

"Who was he? Who took that photo? Why don't you love me anymore?" you should ask, but you don't. Instead you say, "No problem."

But then she's sweet and Scully-like and says all the right things.

You catch yourself bantering, you catch yourself flirting, you catch yourself forgetting just what exactly the issue was. She ends the call by finishing the periodic table for you, and by the time she's to the Lanthanide series, you catch yourself right back in love with her, maybe even more than before.

You knew she wouldn't do that.

….

Joe Benasheck again, bragging about his hot as hell girlfriend in the dining hall. You begin to regret not just grabbing your dinner to go.

"Yo Mulder, you were dating that little redhead, right? The geeky science one?" You suddenly feel like punching someone.

"Her name is Dana Scully," you grind through your teeth.

"Yeah, that's right, Melissa's baby sister. Melissa's in these pics, too. Denise sent 'em to me from her trip." He passes some photos across a pile of soda cans and used napkins. The only person you care less about than Joe Benasheck is his girlfriend Denise, so you barely give the photos a glance. Until…

Her red hair glows, shines like a campfire on a blue-dusk night. "Ain't Denise hot?" Joe's asking, but you're not listening, you can't breathe. There's Melissa kissing some guy, there's apparently Denise, and then there's Scully… with another guy. His arms are around her waist, his chin on her shoulder, and she's laughing that laugh that sounds like your mother's seashell windchime. You don't even have to be there to hear it.

Joe calls you an asshole when you throw the photos on the ground, but you're already out the door.

….

Sixty-eight days. Three weeks left.

You try to be mad. You try to hate her. You try to call her a bitch and a slut. But you _can't_. You can't because she's Scully. She's still Scully. So instead you turn the names on yourself. Idiot. Loser. Pathetic and delusional and hopeless. Failure.

The fifth package arrives. It sits on your desk while you wage an internal war. Open it, burn it, hold it to your chest and cry for the next thirty-six hours or so.

You're weak and you know it as the wrapping hits the floor. Out rolls another metal tube. It fits right into the first, up on your shelf. Your fingers shake while you unfold her note, delicate as always. Remember when you and Samantha used to do origami? You were always the clever one, showing her over and over again how to make a valley, yet mountain after mountain she'd fold. You're not so clever now, are you? Your hands are still shaking.

 _I can't believe it, can you? We're almost there._ _Today's piece is the burner tube—fits right in there on top of the collar._

 _This is the very last package, I just realized._ _Because the next piece I'll deliver in person. Oh Mulder, it's getting so close, I can taste it. Classes finish the end of next week, then it's time to start counting the days… I just keep imagining seeing you for the first time._ _I don't think I'll be able to run fast enough to jump into your arms, so I hope you'll be ready…_

 _Hey, is everything okay?_ _Things seemed a little "off" the last time I called. I love you more than anything, please know that._ _Okay?_

 _P.S. I've been reading some really fascinating material about relativity and Einstein's twin paradox recently._

 _P.P.S._ _Bill wrecked his car._ _My parents are so ticked off!_

 _P.P.P.S._ _I'll call at 8 on Wednesday—don't forget!_

You fall asleep and dream of a thousand origami cranes, folded from pretty blue stationary, going up in the flames of a Bunsen burner.

….

The next day, you almost get fired for bailing on a meeting with Professor Krasnowski. You must sound as pathetic as you feel when he calls though, because he lets you off the hook and tells you to get your butt back in tomorrow.

You spend the day taking apart then fitting back together pieces of stolen school property, trying to decide how many pieces back she stopped loving you.

….

You've watched the phone since 6:00. It's Wednesday, and it's been seventy-one days.

Eight o'clock on the nose when she calls. On the nose, on her pretty sloped nose.

You glare at the phone, glare at it with tears in your eyes and a guilt-trip on your shoulder. Why are you the one feeling remorse here? You sit on your hands to keep from answering.

She calls again in fifteen minutes, then thirty, and a final time in an hour.

She calls a few more times over the next couple days, or at least you assume it's her. You've basically stopped answering your phone altogether.

You vacillate between loving her so desperately you can barely breathe to hating her with an almost violent sort of numbness. You went skiing a few years ago, stayed out in the snow until your feet lost all feeling. It was fun to see how many things you could kick without pain. The bruises bloomed a few hours later though, and hurt like hell for a week.

They're there now, those bruises, beneath all the numbness, just waiting for the blood to start pumping.

Joe shows up at your door a few days later. "Denise got a call from Melissa Scully, says her baby sister's worried about you." You grunt disgustingly in reply.

Good, let her be worried.

….

Seventy-nine days.

You should've expected this. Should've stopped checking your mail, school notices and magazine subscriptions be damned.

The sky blue envelope mixed amidst the whites is physically painful. You let it sit there at your desk for hours. Maybe it'll be slowly devoured by the newspaper clipping convention currently taking place on your blotter.

But you watch it, allow it to occupy just the tiniest corner of your vision for most of the afternoon. Pretending not to care all the while.

When you sit on the couch, it reminds you of her.

When you lie on the bed, it reminds you of her.

When you look at your wall, it reminds you of her.

The photos are still hanging. You can't take them down. They're the only way you can get yourself to sleep, gazing at her freckles, traveling back in time to that afternoon with the camera, before there were days to count down.

You open the letter only after successfully dribbling the basketball two hundred times in a row. Your downstairs neighbors hate you.

 _Fox (this feels like one of those times first names are necessary),_

 _You're scaring me._ _What's going on?_ _I've tried calling several times—didn't you remember Wednesday night?_ _Missy checked with her friend Denise, whose boyfriend says you're there and are fine…_

 _Please, if I've done something or if someone's done something… Please._ _I haven't been able to sleep worrying about you._ _There're only a few days left, we can do this!_

 _Call me collect, reverse the charges._ _Please._ _I need to know you're all right._

 _I love you,_

 _Dana_

 _P.S. I really love you._

 _P.P.S._ _I really, really love you._

 _P.P.P.S._ _Are you getting the picture yet?_

….

You don't call her. You can't. Each time you reach toward the phone, his hands are there, sweeping back her hair, whispering in her ear. You get an almost perverse pleasure out of imagining it. She's been too good for you from the start. She's a bright and shiny little sportscar, all devastating curves and crisp, clean lines, and you're a broken down pickup, your bed sagging low from all the excess baggage. The two of you could never have shared a garage for long.

It helps to tell yourself these things. Helps you sink more deeply into those dark and melancholy waters.

But then there's _my fuzzy little forest creature_ , and there's _Cherry Blossom_ and _Aurora,_ and there's _god, I'm really wet, Mulder_ , and you find yourself afloat all over again.

You're going to lose your mind.

You're going to lose your mind, and there're only eight days left.

….

Another dozen phonecalls over the next several days (god forbid there's someone who really needs to talk to you), so many you consider unplugging the phone, except no. Severing that final connection seems unimaginable. There's something comforting in the _ring_ every few hours, something life-affirming in the knowledge that she's feeling this just as constantly and consistently as you are.

The thirteenth time, you answer. She catches you at a weak point, when for a moment you wonder whether you've gotten it all wrong, you wonder whether you're hurting her just as much as she's hurting you.

Only it's not her after all. It's the guy who works at the dorm lobby desk, chewing you out for letting your mail stack up for the entire past week, threatening to throw it all in the dumpster.

He gives you the ol' evil eye when you retrieve it, but you and the ol' evil eye are good friends by now, so you ignore it. Life's been giving you the ol' evil eye for years.

And there it is. That little envelope of sky peeking through the pointed paper clouds just like you were dreading. Were you really though? You suspect you may actually have been hoping, but are quick to deny it. Regardless, it's there, and your fingers tremble to hold the stack as you make your way to your room.

You stare at it for a while, lay it on the very bed you've kissed her upon too many times to count, and stare. A month ago, you'd have been ripping it open with your teeth. They ache now, your teeth, ache from the clenching and unclenching you've taken up at night. Despite everything, you still miss her like hell.

It slides open, almost too easily (shouldn't it hurt?), and you read her words with barely-there tears in your eyes.

 _Mulder._ _God._ _I'm beside myself._ _What is going on?_ _Please!_ _Please talk to me, call me, write me, anything!_ _I don't know what I've done or what's happened, and it's tearing me apart inside._ _I walk through my days either completely dazed or fighting back tears._ _You're my other half, you're the rest of my Bunsen burner—I can't bear the possibility that I've lost that._ _Please._ _I'll be there on Saturday, but please, baby, I don't want to wait that long. I need to know we're okay._

 _Please._

Her handwriting, it's more jagged than usual, and for some reason that hits you more acutely than even the words themselves. Your Scully—she's beautiful calligraphy; she's not chicken-scratch. Are you what's done that to her?

No. No, she's done it to herself.

But what if you're wrong?

Without thinking, without considering the what-if's and the why's, you pick up the phone and dial. The thought of hearing her voice sends shivers down your spine, if you're being honest. It also scares you shitless.

It rings. And rings and rings and rings. You wait through eighty seven rings, one for each day you've been without her. Each one hurts worse than the last.

….

It's Saturday, and it's been a lifetime. Zero days left.

You don't know how you feel anymore. Numb—that's how you feel. You hate it. The last few weeks have been torture. Your body can't take the ups and downs and arounds for one day longer. You need to know. As heart-wrenching and painful as it will be, you need to know.

You don't know what time to expect her and so you wait. Like a sorcerer before his crystal ball, you conjure things up—anger and fury and rage. Swirling in your head are images of his chin on her shoulder, sounds of his muffled voice in your ear.

But then there's also her desperate scrawled _please_ , her pale white skin adorned in rose-red satin, that freckle you have yet to name.

You took down the photos this morning, pored over each one for hours it seemed, felt aroused, then not, then aroused again. It will kill you if she's not yours anymore. It will kill you even more if you're the reason for that. It's like riding a bike—pedaling your hardest, hardest, hardest toward the hill, then changing your mind at the very last minute, pounding your brakes like crazy when you crest over the top, only it's too late and you're speeding down so fast you can't even breathe, but there's nothing you can do. Because you did this to yourself. _You did it to yourself_.

You remember likening your life to a Polaroid photo. Your existence right now, it's just a mixture of chemicals, it's undeveloped emulsion, it's color without form.

You need to be shaken. Badly.

You still love her.

….

The knock on your door is timid, as much as a knock can be. It sounds like her somehow.

You've waited ninety days for this moment.

You gather up your armor—your stoic-straight face and your sarcasm—layer it nice and thick. But it isn't enough and you know it. You're destined to crack.

Your heart pounds as you face the door (you fucked her against that door one time), fingers shake as you twist the old brass knob (she squealed when the metal touched her skin). The hinges squeak as you pull.

And then she's there, after three months of not being there, after Polaroids and freckles and stopcocks, after questionably-taken photographs and muffled phone conversations and photos with a girl named Denise. _She's there._

"Mulder," she gasps. "Oh my god, Mulder." Her face, christ, her face. An angel, a Renaissance painting, and all you can do is stare.

 _Shake._

"My god, I've been so worried." She crumbles then, before your very eyes, falls forward and catches herself with your body. You can't move. There's concrete flowing through your veins. Her hair is tickling at your chin and you want to die.

She notices, lifts up her eyes (you'd forgotten how blue they are, in three months you'd forgotten), raises her warm little hand to your jaw. "What's going on? Please," she whispers, tears running desperately down her cheeks.

You almost crack—you've never felt anything as perfect as her hand there—but then you see _his_ face, Biff or Dirk or whoever, hovering above her shoulder and grinning. "No," you breathe. Your concrete legs shatter, and you pull yourself away. She stumbles in your absence. "NO." you say again.

"Mulder, what—?" she sobs, but you don't even allow her to finish.

"Who is he, Scully? WHO IS HE?" You bare your teeth like a wild animal's, and her eyes go wide.

"Mulder, you're scaring me. Who is who?" Ninety days ago, you never pictured this. You never pictured her with tears in her eyes and cowering against your door, you never pictured the most perfect relationship of your life falling like sand through your fingertips.

"That photo, of that pretty little freckle on your pretty little rear, Scully. _Aurora_." You say it with a snide sort of sneer. "Who took that photo, Scully?"

"I don't know what… **_I_** took it—for you to name, remember? Mulder, WHAT IS GOING ON?" Her face is still the most breathtaking thing you've ever seen, even now, even while she's lying through her teeth.

"Been taking gymnastics classes, Scully? Or yoga, maybe yoga? Is he some hippy-dippy into yoga?" You can't stop yourself. You're a snowball rolling down a hill, gathering speed and snow and anger with each passing second.

"I don't understand…" She sits tentatively down on the bed and curls her arms around her torso. "I took gymnastics as a kid, is that what you mean?" It's a protective measure, what she's doing, and for some reason that makes you even madder.

"The PHOTO, Scully, how did you take that photo? Listen, I know you're flexible, I mean I've seen it, right? But that angle? C'mon, I'm not stupid." You leer disgustingly at her. You want to throw up. You want to punch yourself in the face, then get down on your knees and beg her to make it all better.

"What? The… the photo?" The confusion on her face lifts, is replaced by understanding, relief. "My god, is that was this is about? A tripod, I used a tripod—Melissa's into photography, and she has a tripod. In fact, you should've seen me trying to get the positioning right. It was so absurd—"

 _Shake._

NO.

No, it can't be that easy. She thinks she's off the hook, but it's about more than just the photo, and she knows it. "Ahh, a tripod," you interrupt. "Convenient, huh?"

"Yes…," she hesitates, "It _was_ convenient. I still don't know what you're getting at here. God, I've missed you so much. This isn't the way this was supposed to go…" You can't listen to her, can't hear that pleading tone right now, can't look at her expectant, flushed little face. You tear your eyes away to land on your shelf, and that was an even worse idea. Just one piece left, one she's probably got hidden in her bag, just one more 'til the burner's complete.

"Okay, then what about the guy?" you tear back into her, trying to ignore the gashes your teeth are leaving on her neck. "When I called—the guy you didn't want me to hear?" You try your hardest to hold onto the anger, you grip it in your sweaty, balled up fists, but his face, his fucking face, and her laughter, and the way she kisses with her whole body, the fact that she could've done that with him… You feel yourself cracking. "His arms were around your waist, Scully, they were around your fucking waist, his chin was on your shoulder…" You choke back the tears fighting valiantly to escape.

"You're not making sense. What guy? Around my waist? You haven't seen me for three months. My god, Mulder, I don't understand what's happening!" Why? Why can't you just let this be? She's here now. With you. Her arms would be around _your_ waist right now if you could just leave this alone.

 _Shake._

But you can't. Never in your life have you been able to leave something alone. "In the damn picture, Scully! With Joe Benasheck's girlfriend, Diane or Denise or whoever the fuck she is, HIS HANDS WERE AROUND YOUR WAIST." You're pacing, trying your damnedest to outstep the hurt and the pain rising so close to the surface, you can barely breathe.

She looks at you, brings her hand to her mouth and makes a neat little 'o'. "Oh, oh my god. Oh, Mulder. You saw those pictures? Oh, Mulder, god… oh, I'm so sorry." She's coming toward you, reaching out her arms (weren't you just wishing they'd fit around _your_ waist?), but you panic, stumbling away from her. If she touches you, it'll be all over.

"So you admit it then!" You try to sound angry but you fail. Instead you sound broken, utterly defeated. This whole time you've held onto the tiniest sliver of hope, that it wasn't true, that _she wouldn't do that_. Your back hits the wall. There's no escape.

She touches you then, tucks her hands into yours and squeezes. You want to flinch, but Christ, it just feels so good. It feels so good, your knees feel weak.

 _Shake._

"NO. Mulder, listen to me. LISTEN TO ME." She ducks her head until you'll meet her eyes but you pinch them shut—it's the only way to keep from crying. She continues anyway, "The guy in those photos, on the phone—that was Leslie. Don't you remember? Look at me." You open your eyes and look. "I told you about him. He's my COUSIN. My cousin! He's… he's just like that. Always giving bear hugs and being silly… It's… it was just my cousin… Oh my god, Mulder. Is this why—?" She lets go of your hands to stroke your cheek.

 _Shake._

"Leslie is… a guy?" you ask meekly. "This whole time I assumed…" You trail off into nothing. It doesn't matter anyway.

"It's…," she chuckles, "It's a family name. He hates it. Jesus, Mulder, I can't imagine… what must have been going through your head. I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry." Her fingers slide through your hair, and you can feel the chemicals beneath your weary plastic surface beginning to swirl.

 _Shake, shake, shake._

"So there's not someone else? That's… It wasn't true?" Emulsion beginning to gel, colors dragging sluggishly into focus…

She's petting you now, running her fingers over your chest like ten little caterpillars. Outlines slowly defining…

"Oh, Mulder. No, baby, no. I couldn't even imagine. You're… you're my everything. My fuzzy little forest creature, my fox-eyed boy, the final piece of my Bunsen burner…" She lifts to her toes and kisses you softly beneath your jaw. Then again on your cheek and again near the corner of your lips.

 _Shake, shake, shake._

And then, in one glorious breath, you snap suddenly into focus. Your entire world becomes clear. You look down at her upturned face and feel the way Hubble must've felt, realizing the universe is still expanding, realizing everything was borne of one single, solitary point.

 _She_ is that point.

Your universe.

Your Big Bang.

"Oh Scully," you breathe.

You grasp her jaw and pull her to your mouth, kiss her the way you've dreamed about for the last ninety days, kiss her the way you wish you could've kissed her with each package, with each pretty blue note, each cold metal piece of the puzzle. She whimpers, and you think she may be crying, you _know_ you're crying, but none of it matters. Because she's here, finally, after so long being anywhere but.

"The Bunsen burner," she mumbles against your lips, "The outer cone. We have to put it together…"

Your hands are working their way beneath her sweater by now, your hungry, hungry hands. She's smooth and soft, and her leg wrapped around your thigh is the best thing since sliced bread. "It can wait…," you murmur.

"No," she gasps, "No. I think it's important." She tugs away, and you do your very best to chase after her. She's quick though, reaching for the Bunsen burner and pulling a package from her purse, holding it out to you like a carrot on a stick.

You grab for her, spin her around so her back is to your front, slide your arms around her waist and rest your chin upon her shoulder. "Mulder!" she squeals.

"It's my turn," you breathe into her ear, and she shudders. You work together to unwrap the package, ripping off paper and dropping it to the floor. She peppers your neck with kisses as you lift out that final, finishing piece.

"Oh, Mulder," she murmurs, pressing back against you, helping you fit it into place. The most delicious chill slides through your body.

You turn her in your arms, ready to kiss her senseless, when she stops you. "There's a note, too," she whispers. Of course there is. This is Scully.

Placing the burner back up on the shelf, you fish back into the package for an envelope. "You have no idea how much I love your pretty blue paper, Scully…," you say when you've found it, and she giggles. With trembling fingers, you slide out her note.

 _Mulder, Let's never be apart again._ _Never._

You couldn't agree more.

She looks up at you with her blue-as-stationary eyes (it finally dawns on you why you loved that paper so much) and runs a nervous tongue along her plump-as-a-berry lips. You smile, then tumble her down to the bed. With barely-uttered words and a hungry, needy mouth, you take back all those unanswered phone calls, you personally respond to each unreciprocated note. You peel back her clothing and commit her pretty-as-a-photograph body to memory. The Polaroids were incredible, but nothing, absolutely nothing, compares to the real thing.

You welcome back Cherry Blossom, you welcome back Heaven. You welcome back Penny, the Gemini twins, and Aurora. You press a kiss to each of those freckles on her shoulders and search out the one she told you was hidden in that private, special place. Then, with her hands in your hair and your tongue sliding through her folds, you name that one, too. _Mine_.

….

It's the end of August and it's been zero hours.

Zero minutes, zero hours, zero days. You'll never be apart again. You know why? Because Scully said so. And Dana Scully doesn't lie—her little body is packed with everything good in this world, and good things like her don't lie.


End file.
